Crying With the Clouds
by capybara1
Summary: He thinks that he has lost everything and everyone. His mother, his brother, they are all gone. But does he have more left than he had originally thought? Set in alternate timeline. One-shot. EDIT: 4/4/15


**Hello world! :)**

**I have deleted my other fanfic, 'A Surprising ANBU Member', and from now on, Capybara1 is only writing one-shots! Yay! (This is because I don't have the motivation or time to pull off an entire story)**

**As you probably know, I'm fairly new to writing on this site (I've been lurking and reading for years!) so this is my first one-shot! :D**

**But we mustn't forget the Disclaimer: FMA is not mine.**

**Capybara1 OUT!**

**EDIT: 4/4/15**

* * *

All I know is that I am sobbing.

I am whimpering, moaning, groaning, scratching at my eyes. All spirits have fled these hollow spheres, all soul has left, for fear of being flooded by the tears which fall, not just externally, but internally as well. Salty rivers are streaming down my face as salty waterfalls, the lakes in my mind having been flooded, the dams holding them back burst under the cascading torrent of emotions, not so long ago.

Did I mention that I am sobbing?

I don't know how long I have been standing in the inky shadows in the corner of the desolate room, with its wallpaper peeling as if it has grown tired of clinging to the splintered wall, and its floorboards groaning and creaking with arteritis. I would like those fractured shadows to embrace me, engulf me, and take me to a place far away, where I can forget the memories that haunt me, the emotions that are strangling me, tighter and tighter and tighter and I know that there is no escape and I will never be free and I feel like I am a criminal hanging from a rope. I suppose I am a criminal, now I think about it. I let him die, didn't I?

And the pain. So much pain. So. Much. Pain.

I am barely aware of the mourning man propped up by the damp, oozing wall next to me, droplets of despair dismally dripping down his face, his wire framed glasses are askew on his nose, the battered and bruised frames appearing delicate, breakable. Although they do sport a few dents, and the right side is twisted just slightly, I know that, sad as it is, they are the part of him that is least ruined. I know that deep down, imprinted like letters stepping on his sole, his heart, where man cannot usually see, he has sustained damaged almost beyond repair. Have I caused that damage?

His hair is over shadowing his eyes, tangled like the mess that is my mind, my mind which feels as is someone has gotten a pen, and scribbled. Scribbled as hard as they could, taking all of their anger, hate, misery, and other unwanted emotions, and cramming it inside my head. It feels like they are still scribbling now, continuing to blot and scratch and ruin the once empty page. I think that it is fortunate that I can not see his eyes. I do not want to see them, because I know what they show. I know that those eyes, once pools of freshly cast gold, now murky with the shadows of his sins, show his horror, his sadness, his frustration, and most of all; his overwhelming guilt.

I know, somewhere inside of me, that he is my father.

But my brother didn't call him a father, so should I?

My brother. My father, my mother, my teacher. My enemies. But who are my enemies? I have no idea, do I have no one I can trust? I start to panic, my head is whirling from the memories, and there is no escape, there never will be, and make it stop, please, someone make it stop...

Then suddenly I am taken over by the savage creature known as rage, an evil, twisted creature that hasn't broken free from it's restraints since long ago. The beast worms its way into my scribbled mind, like the insects and wood worms that infested the decrepit floorboards long ago, and it wills me, forces me to go to the man slumped against the decaying wall and grab his once pristine white shirt. Now it is grimy with dirt and dust and other debris, and as I seize him, a deafening tear resounds through the damp, dirty, and dilapidated room.

And I punch him.

I punch his overshadowed face, and his head snaps back at an alarming speed. But I don't care, the beast still has control of me, and I can feel hatred running thick through my veins. I like the feeling, the power I have been given, the control over him which I now possess.

The man hunched like a vulture in the corner doesn't resist; and I keep beating him, venting out my sorrow, and my rage, and my despair, desperately attempting to untangle the twists and turns and scrawls and knots of my consciousness, let go of the horrible feeling of hopelessness it has left me with. I find a rhythm; punch, drawback fist, and punch again. I cry out with loneliness, and it is not a human sound, but the sound of a caged animal, a desperate entity. There is no concept of time in this dimension, and space is a ridiculous notion. I can only see black, a swirling void, a chasm of despair tinged and streaked with red, as if it is mocking me, taunting me to follow the twisting ribbon of hate etched into this galaxy of charcoal black. And then, slowly, I begin to feel myself returning from the abyss, bands of light and colour flickering across my vision as a swarm of fireflies. I feel myself being freed from the clutches of anger that had overpowered me, and when I look again, I feel disgusted by what I see, by what I have done.

His once white, then brown shirt has now become a vibrant crimson. Crimson which is leeching into his jacket, trousers, and smearing on the pitted floor and cold, wet wall. It is not just wet from the musty dampness which overran this place years ago. There is new damp, and it is in the form of blood. I can tell he is unconscious, but even as I notice this, another, solitary tear slides down his scarlet cheek, like a single soldier marching alone. The trail it leaves glistens forlornly in the dim light.

I cannot look anymore; I turn and shuffle to the grimy window, watching the ancient street lamps flicker with a feeble and watery light outside, moths fluttering desperately around the weak beams like bees to a hive.

Diamonds are cutting into my cheeks, shining as the dying light bounces off them, but I have no need for these jewels, for anything except my own self pity.

But there is one thing, that, with my scrawled and tangled mind, I notice more than anything else.

The sky is crying as well.

Raindrops falls with a soft pitter patter, dripping down the thin pane, printing their soft footsteps onto the glass separating me from the outside world. It is then that I realise; this is what I feel like. I feel as if my life before was held in place by a flimsy and fragile pane of glass, and now that glass has broken. The man who used to have eyes as gold as the morning sun, but which now are covered with stormy clouds of guilt, the despicable man who is collapsed, unconscious next to me, has shattered that glass. And I am left with nothing.

Nothing apart from my tears, and my racked sobs in the dying light.

Soon the room will be flooded with utter darkness. That is good, because in the velvety blackness, nobody can see me, see my raw pain, or naked fear.

I will be alone.

I can still feel salty water quivering on the end of my blotched nose, dripping off into my mouth, and I taste the sea. I slowly drift off, pulled by currents and eddies, sucked into a whirlpool, a deep, black whirlpool, which I can not see the end of. I have no dreams, no nightmares. Only the total darkness that surrounds me, and shields me from my loneliness and guilt.

* * *

I open my bleary eyes, blinking the still looming shadow of sleep out of them, to the sound of voices, not so far away. Shouting voices, concerned voices.

And then the ancient door bursts open, its hinges groaning under strain which they have not had to cope with for many years, and two figures run in to the room, panting heavily, like wolves after a hard session of hunting. My brain is still half asleep, and I am groggy, tangled in the terrible knots of string and wool that make up my mind, but soon the memories of yesterday flood back to me, drowning me, choking me. The man is still slumped next to me, and, to my horror, that vivid crimson colour has oozed and spread across the groaning floorboards in the night, leeching not only into the infested wood, but also into my clothes. I feel as if it is chasing me, preying on me, letting me know that however fast I run, there is no escape from the deeds I have committed.

I start to edge away, scuffling, the floor's wooden splinters catching on my clothing, holding me back. Tears of shock, sorrow and guilt are cascading down my cold, muddy face, torrents of loneliness, shame and fear.

In my haste, my foolish haste, I back into the people who just broke in.

They look at me, faces plastered with an unidentifiable emotion which I can only guess contains surprise and relief, then two pairs of eyes, one, a deep onyx which I find my self being sucked into, and one, a warm caramel and topaz trickled together, follow my line of sight.

And then they gasp, curls of air whispering and breaking free from the prison of their mouths, and they push me out of the way, running over to the wall where I was resting only a short moment ago. The crimson wall. The wall where the monster is. The monster that I used to call my father.

They kneel down next to him, taking in the horrible sight, breathing in the despair which resounds so densely around the room that I am surprised that they are still standing, that they have not yet succumbed to its awful and beautiful will. For a split second, a shocked expression overrules their previous emotions, but as I watch, the man's lips compress into a tense, tight line, and a single angry pant, he lets it go. I can see that he is no longer pressed down, chained by the hatred and fear deeply ingrained into this wretched room, as if someone has gotten a knife and craved it into the place's very soul.

Then they start shouting at each other. I am so deeply engaged in the seemingly impossible task of sorting through my twisted mind space, trying fruitlessly to find a way to escape my own prison, scrabbling to break free of the maelstrom of thoughts that tie me down, that I have no inkling of what they are saying, the competing sounds muffled to a mere whisper in the distance, as if a blanket has been placed on the world, blocking me out, isolating me.

But then someone grabs me, and all I can see is bright tears falling and glinting like broken mirrors from those never ending onyx eyes, before the man shakes me, hard.

I hit the wall, hearing a dull thud from somewhere in the distance, and pain shoots through my head like fire, burning away the little sanity I still have left, destroying everything in its path.

The woman gasps as I slide down the stained and broken wall, and gets up from her position next to the monster to reach for the one who flung me.

My head feels like it is about to explode, pain shooting through me like molten lava, and I can feel a dark crimson liquid dripping sluggishly down my face, trickling down my shirt collar and pooling, a sticky mass of life giving fluid seeping from my grimy scalp. The world starts to fade.

I welcome the blackness.

* * *

My head feels as though a swarm of angry hornets are inside, buzzing and attempting to break free, swirling around in a catastrophic thunderstorm of black and yellow. I feel hot, salty liquid slide down my pale cheeks as I start to regain my memories and hearing. The world is still black, but in the midst of the mind numbing pain, I am somehow able to find the situation vaguely comforting. Hushed voices penetrate my mental barriers, fortresses of iron I have constructed to keep the memories at bay, and they are whispering sorrowful words of comfort, I think. I can not be sure, but the crisp rustle of sheets under me suggest that I am in a hospital.

I attempt to open my eyes to see.

The voices stop.

I can feel the crust of weariness which has formed on my eyelids crack, and a sliver of bright light appears in my vision.

I blink a couple of times, and my sight begins to return, slowly, certain colours and patterns first, others appearing later. There are three blurred shapes leaning over me, two of which seem to be blue.

Everything is vague and fuzzy, colours diluted, sounds muffled and everything hazy, as the world is when a blanket of crisp, white and powdery snow is fresh on the ground, and everyone is asleep, unaware of the excitement they will face when, in a few hours, the children wake.

I blink again, then press myself deep into the pillow, wishing I could find comfort in the starched white fabric, backing away from the man who I only now realise is in military uniform. Somewhere in the mists of my mind, I know who he is, but all I can recall at the moment is that he was the one with the deep, dark eyes, the one who threw me last night. He is rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, and for some unexplainable reason, I am under the impression that he wants to set fire to something. Is he an arsonist? Is he like the people that I used to face with my brot... I cut myself off, before my mental blockades, my walls of steel, can once again turn to dust under the floods which I know will occur if I continue. The man has a sour expression on his face; a contrast to the concerned one of the blond woman next to him, and the tired look of the ragged man behind the soldiers.

The pain is still there, and I am riding the waves, I must not fall in to that never ending ocean of greed and lust and envy and gluttony and sloth andprideandwrath and overwhelming, undiluted guilt.

I don't want to admit it, but I feel petrified. Medusa with her writhing mane of serpents, serpents with frosty and cutting emerald eyes, has looked me in the eye, and now I am stone, cold, unyielding stone. My body has frozen, and I can't move a muscle. I force my limbs to unstick, to move, to work, and I once more reverse, pressing my thin frame in to the biting metal cold of the bed stead. Another wave of pain courses through my head. I groan and clutch it, and, to my surprise, a fresh white bandage has been wrapped neatly around it. The woman with the hair so like his frowns in concern.

The pain continues rolling in, and soon I become tired of surfing the waves that course through me, causing my body to become racked with shaking, as if Jack Frost has whispered his icy breath onto me, and snow has settled on my spirit, icicles formed on my heart.

A short while later, I fall back onto the sheets and drift into a fitful slumber. Yet even as I toss and turn, I am ever wary of the onyx eyed, scowling man, the man with the gloves of fire and power, the man who attacked me last night, and I stay tense, for fear of suffering a second assault.

Everything else floats past my mind, as I concentrate on containing this new fear, and the tears of pain and regret which threaten to, once more, spill over.

* * *

I am in the middle of nothingness; everything is white.

I do not like it; I am reminded of the truth.

I should know by now, the truth is not a pretty thing.

Everything is empty, I can not see anyone, or anything in this bleached landscape. I am alone.

And then, my brother, my mother and that bastard standing in front to me. With a start, I realise that my mother's outline is blurring, particles disappearing, and I run towards them, but I can not seem to get any closer, and, with every step I take, my mother fades more and more.

I cry out to her, wanting to protect her now like we failed to do all those years ago, but it is no use; she is still smiling her heart warming smile, but now blood is dripping down her chin, staining her clothes and the edges of my vision with a deep crimson.

And then she disappears, becoming one with this desert of nothing, this barren wasteland, and black replaces the red.

I remember this black. I wish I couldn't, but... Now it is my brother who is leaving me, swirling tendrils, inky spirals seizing him and dragging him away, to a place where I know I will not be able to reach him. I know that if he disappears, I will never see him again, so I double my efforts, sprinting as hard as my weak legs can to catch up with him.

But it is no use; now he is gone as well.

Only my father is left, staring at his shoes, a solitary strand of golden hair drooping over his face.

He looks up, and I am shocked to see a heart wrenching expression, an expression of every negative thought in this small universe etched onto his once handsome features. He is not handsome anymore; his cheeks are sunken, and his eyes are dull. He looks, I realise, like a broken man.

I wake up with a start.

* * *

The pain has been reduced to no more than a dull ache at the base of my skull, and I am warm, and cozy. I do not want to wake up; I want to lie here, in this comfortable bed for ever. But I think that the man is still here; the one with the raven hair; the one who threw me; the one I now realise is him. The one my brother hated.

I realise that I hate him too.

Him and his alchemy.

So with enormous effort, I open my eyes and sit up. Swinging my legs over the edge of my bed, I rip the bandage from around my forehead, and, finally, I notice where I am.

I came here before, with my brother. I was wrong; it is not a hospital.

It is a house.

The house of a doctor, a doctor who treated two friends of mine. I now feel bad, the last time I saw him, he looked exhausted, as if he was ready to give up on life. I can't be doing him any favours by staying here can I? However, I can not argue with the fact that he is indeed talented. One of my friends lost an arm. The other I carried after she passed out. I can not remember what happened to her, or her panda.

I hope they are both safe in Xing.

With this thought in mind, I take another look at the room I am in.

Nobody is around, and the dim lights flicker feebly, as if they have also lived far too long, seen far too many things.

What happened yesterday is a mere smudge in the past; I have almost accepted it. Almost. In the murky depths of my heart I know I never will. Because what happened yesterday is too dreadful to ever forget; I know that I will be replaying the scenes in my head like my favourite music until the day I die. There will be no escape. It is almost better that way; I know that I will never make the same mistakes again.

I can't afford to.

I stretch my legs, and stand. Staggering, I grip the bed post to right myself, and, after slipping on the grimy clothes I was wearing yesterday, I start walking, placing one foot in front of the other, one step at a time.

After what seems like eternity, I reach the door. It is strange, seeing a door which is younger and fresher than something from the prehistoric ages, a piece of wood which will not fracture and break at the slightest touch of the hand.

Into the landing, past a window, past another door, I can hear voices.

So I run.

But then I reach the last door in the corridor, which is slightly agar.

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I push it very gently. It opens with the gentle creak of an old man's bones, and I step inside.

The first thing I notice is the floor; or rather, the lack of it. Everywhere, on the threadbare rug, the scuffed oak floor, the well worn bookshelves, there is... stuff. It looks as if an explosion has occurred in this small room, a bomb has blown, and out of it, colourful paper, half dirty mugs, old magazines, forlorn looking teddy bears, broken pencils and the odd, musty book has been ejected into the place. Ejected with a lot of force.

It is only after I have managed to take in the festival of objects that I notice there is another bed; I think that it is the doctor's. But lying between the crisp sheets it not the kind- hearted man who I know is sick of the world; is that bastard.

My father.

He is no longer covered in that awful red, his cracked wire glasses are by the side of the bed, and a single strand of hair is draped across his face. Does it never get combed back?

I am overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the same, gut wrenching, heart mangling emotions which have been tailing me for the last day. They give me no rest, for when I sleep, they pounce. When I turn my back, they strike. They are the hunters, knives in hand, and I am the prey. I have no options, not even to run. They have me surrounded. Last night is an example; I will not make that mistake again.

On impulse, I tiptoe across the carnival of colours and objects on the floor, picking my slow way across the patches of carpet which I can actually see. After a short game of 'avoid the doctor's accumulated rubbish', I reach the bed, and bend down. I have no idea what makes me do this, but I extend a single, thin index finger, and I brush that strand of hair from his brow. This strange act satisfies a creature down inside of me, a monster in my soul, and I feel slightly more at peace with myself than I did two minutes ago. Than I have done for a day. It feels as if it has been much longer.

Even after all that that man did, to me and my brother, even after what happened yesterday, he is still my father.

A dreadful man, a lying man, a man who left us and didn't even come to mum's funeral when she died, a monster.

But he is still my father.

I hate every fibre in his miserable and broken body, but he is still my father.

And yet I have done this to him.

In a childish fit of rage, I have done this to him.

Although now that I think about it, I am little more than a child. My fighting ability, maturity, emotional control, are pitiful, all little more developed than an infant's. Have I really done this little in this much time? Were all these years with my brother wasted?

My father is all I have left, excluding the corrupted military, and yet I have done this to him.

I am appalled at my self; I can not work out what came over me last night.

I realise now that it is no wonder that the Colonel threw me as far as he did, as hard as he did.

I am a coward who does not want to explain myself, and for the second time in ten minutes, I run.

I run away from my problems, into the crowded street, into the foggy air of Central City.

I have no idea where I am running; My legs go where ever my muddled brain takes me, the rest of my body following.

* * *

After what seems like hours, I stop, not because I want to, but because my body can't keep it up.

At least, I think, it is quieter here.

And it is; I have ended up in a square, and I am alone. The only company I have is the the occasional passer by, all of whom walk briskly on, heads bowed, shoulders hunched. It is a feeble attempt at protection from the harsh elements.

I slide down the building behind me, bricks scuffing and marking my clothes, and I hit the filthy pavement with a dull thud.

And then something strange happens.

A small ginger tom cat struts up to me, tail and head both raised high, as if he is defiantly rejecting the cold and hunger which I can see impose on him. He is thin, and I can see the ribs sticking out from under his matted, damp fur. I look down at my own body. We are similar. My brother's old and battle worn clothes are hanging loosely off me, my long, golden hair tangled and filthy. I'm not really that surprised at my stick like limbs, my boney body; we had expected as much.

I am startled back into reality by my new feline friend. Putting two petite and filthy paws onto my lap, he looks up at me as if to ask if I am alright with it.

I nod to him, feeling faintly ridiculous, but right now, I need the company in this potholed square, with the rain sheeting down as a single, unstoppable force. The next second he is on my lap, curled up into a small ball of warmth, and purring loudly, the deep sound vibrating through my lap, and stretching and reaching to the edges of my being, lighting me up from the inside.

I feel as though someone has just shined a small beacon of hope into the darkness surrounding me.

It is exactly what I know I need.

I have always loved cats of all shapes and sizes, and, as I wind my thin hands through this one's grimy fur, I feel a sense of peace come over me as it hasn't for what seems to be eternity.

I can not keep it in any longer; I feel my residual pain slide down my cheeks in the form of salt water, and as I let loose my first aching sob, the heavens open with a new found force, and stinging droplets fall and slash my already soaking face.

Soon I am sitting in the middle of an even stronger downpour.

I stay like that for what must be hours, body racked with sobs, tears sliding down my cheeks, the chilling rain soaking through everything I am wearing until I am sodden, freezing, and utterly depressed. Even the cat has stopped purring.

I have run out of tears; I have no more left to cry. The clouds, however, are still weeping wholeheartedly, plump drops cascading down with the power of waterfalls.

I find myself still absently stroking the cat, running my fingers through it's sopping and matted tangle of ginger fur.

I lean back, tilting my dripping head up to look at the thin, grey clouds. The crying clouds.

I lean back, and I wonder what happens when you die.

I wonder if it is possible that the souls go to the sky, if our loved ones really do look down on us like people say they do.

My brother would disagree. He would say that our souls go to the gate, that our bodies decompose in the cold, hard ground, and that our life force is used as energy for alchemy.

But I do not believe in alchemy, or the gate, or the philosophers stone anymore. I can't put my trust in science, or equivalent exchange. It let me down when I needed it the most, and left me with nothing apart from a scrawny, wet alley cat and the rain. If there is such thing as equivalent exchange, what did I get in return for my brother?

Nothing. I got nothing.

So now I am sat in a puddle, my clothes dripping, a muddy cat on my lap, and I am looking at the clouds.

I am looking at the miserable grey clouds, wondering about death.

Have I finally lost my sanity?

I don't think I have.

And then I wonder, if souls go there when people die, surely when it rains, it is just our loved ones crying for us, regretting the fact that they never got a chance to say goodbye to their daughter, make up with their granny, or tell their husband how much they loved him.

Is my mother up there?

She was always too strong to cry, constantly smiling her dazzling smile. She would be the sun that is now peeping out from behind the stormy clouds. She is the burning sun, keeping us all alive as we struggle on through this hard life. She is the sun, that, as I think this, is offering its rays of light to every human and beast on this tiny, insignificant planet of ours.

My brother is another matter. He was always so quick to anger, so quick to display his emotions to everyone and anyone he met. He, I think fondly, would be the storm. He is probably stropping about how he left his little brother, and how he hates his father. But at least he is with Mum now.

He is not alone.

I am so caught up in my musings that I do not notice the woman approaching. Her long, blond hair is in a bun, held in place by a simple black hair grip.

I have calmed down enough by now to know who she is.

Her eyes of caramel and topaz frown at me in a concerned manner, but then I smile at her; it feels wrong, like my face is splitting in two, but it seems to make her happy. I know that she can see I have been crying; I am well aware of my swollen and bloodshot eyes, and the glistening tear tracks in the morning light.

The sun has come out fully now, and as she perches next to me, her face is illuminated. Her face, which shows nothing but genuine concern and a fair degree of relief as well, is illuminated by my mother's rays. It is a wonderful thought.

She doesn't try to talk to me; she knows what I have been through these last few days, why I wanted to be alone, and she doesn't try to push me into an uncomfortable conversation, for which I am grateful.

After about an hour, I decide to talk. I can not hold it in any longer; and I will have to tell the story at some point; so, I think, why not now?

I take a deep, oxygenating breath, and let it all out in a long, weary sigh.

And then I tell the woman with the caramel and topaz eyes what happened. I tell her everything.

* * *

She doesn't question me when I tell her how the battle began, how the Fuhrer lured us in, how the soldiers swarmed us and we were forced to fight with every bit of skill the three of us possesed.

She doesn't interrupt when I described how, in the heat of the moment, my father used his philosopher's stone to return me and my brother's bodies to normal, despite the fact that we begged him not to. He caught us when we were fighting, there was nothing we could do about it, and we were both mad at him for it. He defeated the entire purpose of our goal; to get our original bodies back without hurting anyone else in the process.

I do not even want to think how many sacrifices were used to create such a horrendous object.

There was another problem with my father's plan.

My body was in absolutely no condition to fight; my brother was forced to protect me.

I hated the feeling of helplessness which I remember overwhelmed me at the time.

He was everywhere; punching, kicking, using his alchemy in ways which I didn't even realise were possible, all in an attempt to protect me.

I hated every second of it.

It went on and on, like a never ending cycle. Both he and my father combined must have finished off at least several hundred soldiers, but they kept on coming. It was like an awful nightmare, blood slick on every surface.

But then there was a surprise attack. I could see it, but I couldn't move in time.

He could see it too.

I blinked, and a light splatter of blood flicked my face.

It was the first thing apart from the cold, gritty ground I had felt in my new body.

My brother's blood, dripping down my cheek.

The soldier responsible fell to the ground as my father finished him off, but the blade was still there, the cold, unforgiving steel biting into my brother's flesh.

He toppled as if in slow motion, my father catching him in his grimy arms as he hit the ground. I couldn't see the bastard's face, his eyes shadowed, his mouth quivering.

My brother turned to me, the movement painstakingly slow. He raised his newly returned right hand to me, smiled weakly, a thin trail of crimson slipping down his chin.

His eyes closed.

His hand hit the floor.

His chest stopped moving, his heart no longer beating.

I leaned in close, tugging the weapon out of his torso with a soft whimper, and dropped it to the rough, hard ground.

A crystal drop slid down my father's face, but I couldn't feel pity for the man.

He had killed my brother.

Or had it been me?

I staggered to my feet, and ran as fast as I could.

I wasn't aiming for anywhere.

I was attempting to escape, to run away from my emotions.

I was vaguely aware of the bastard following my uneven footsteps, just as a voice penetrated the despair that surrounded me.

I know now that it was the Lieutenant calling.

She had found my brother.

Did she blame me?

I ran until I found an desolate, dingy, damp room.

I slumped against the wall and stayed like that.

Listening to the clouds cry.

Crying with my brother.

I hope he enjoyed the little time he had with his original body. He deserved it.

* * *

**Was that a bit dark? I had fun writing it anyways :D**

**The cat was based on one of my own cuties! (just so you know, he is not an alley cat...) ^.^**

**You know the drill: REVIEW!**

**Capybara1 OUT!**


End file.
